Inside Citadel Walls
by Andrea Rimsky
Summary: Sandry and her uncle seem to have a picture-perfect relationship...but what really happens Inside Citadel Walls? Ch. 15: L'affaire du Journal Privé but in English
1. The Blouse

I don't own it. Any of it. I don't even want to own it. Is that generous or what?

The Blouse

Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, great-niece of His Grace Duke Vedris IV of Emelan and Accredited Mage of Winding Circle Temple was pleased. Her new blouse was perfectly done, as she had known it would be. After all, she, one of the premiere thread-mages of her day, had made it. It was the latest style from Capchen, perfect for a beautiful summer's day. Which is was, she saw, motioning lazily for the drapes to pull themselves back from her window. They obeyed, and she looked out on a glorious, late-summer morning. 

She skipped merrily down the stairs, humming softly to herself, and into the room where she would join her uncle for breakfast.

"Good morning, Uncle," she trilled, leaning down to kiss his cheek, "it's a lovely day." But her uncle was staring at her.

"My dear," he said gravely, "I fear you have neglected to put on an underdress."

Sandry laughed. "Oh, you're so old-fashioned, Uncle. No one's wearing underdresses this season. Don't you like my new blouse?" She added, twirling around to give the full effect.

"You will catch your death of cold," the duke continued, "as well as look entirely indecent."

"Uncle!" Sandry exclaimed.

"Please go and put on something less revealing." Although he phrased it politely enough, something in his tone made it more of a command then a request.

About to obey instinctively, Sandry suddenly stopped. "Uncle," she pleaded, "it's the style. Everyone's wearing them."

"And if "everyone" jumped into the harbor, would you follow suit?" The duke's temper was mounting; his tone was harsher and less warm. "You will take off that indecentthing." His last word was spat out.

"You're being ridiculous, Uncle," she stated flatly, "You can't possibly expect me to take you seriously when you're like this."

"You had best take me seriously, Sandrilene. Now put something on that covers you up decently."

"No." Sandry said firmly, "I won't. I am an adult and a mage. I have proved my responsibility to you time and again. I think I can be trusted to choose my own clothes."

"You forget," her uncle's tone was icy, "my dear, that I am your guardian. I am bound to protect you not only physical danger, but from your own folly as well. When you are older, you will thank me for this. Now go and change!"

"It isn't folly to want to be fashionable," Sandry protested.

"I will not have my niece dressed more lasciviously than those of easy virtue!" Her uncle nearly shouted. He was breathing hard with anger.

"Uncle," she cautioned, "think of your heart."

"The only thing a danger to my heart is the thought of my niece running around like a common harlot! It was this kind of living that brought your parents down, my girl."

"At least if they were alive," Sandry yelled, "they would let me wear what I wanted!" 

"I will not even reply to that wholly irrational comment, Sandrilene," her uncle replied calmly, "Now, go change your blouse."

"You can't make me!" She screamed. "I'm an adult. I can make my own choices!"

"You may be an adult in a magical sense, but you are not excused from the obedience you owe me as your elder and guardian," he explained stiffly. "I do not know what has gotten into you today, my dear," he mused, "usually, you are not so obstinate to reason."

She ignored the last comment. "I don't owe you any obedience. Particularly not when you act like a prudish old despot."

"Ah, so now I am "prudish" for exercising my right to protect you from destroying yourself?"

****

Sandry rolled her eyes. "You're overreacting, Uncle. It's just a blouse."

"A blouse has enough material to cover the wearer decently," he observed sourly. 

She had had enough. Ignoring her uncle, she sat down and helped herself to a muffin.

"Perhaps you did not hear me, Sandrilene," her Uncle's voice cut in, hard and cold as steel, "You are to go immediately and change. I will be obeyed in this."

"I'm not going to listen to you, Uncle," she returned, "I'm wearing this blouse whether you like it or no."

"I will not brook such disobedience!" The duke snarled, "For the last time, go to your room and do not return until you are presentable."

"I won't. You can't make me."

"Can I not?" He walked over to his niece and in one movement slung her over his shoulder. Apparently, his recovery from the debilitating heart attack was complete. 

"You can't do this to me!" Sandry beat against his back with her fists, but to no avail. Grimly, her uncle marched up the stairs, heeding neither her screams nor the astonished gasps of servants, who fled from their master's wrathful glare. When he reached her room, he dropped her unceremoniously on her bed.

"There you'll stay, Young Lady, until you've learnt better manners!" He slammed the door on his way out and locked it. 


	2. The Boyfriend

***NOTE: This, and its precursor are INTENDED to be funny, but a little more subtly than some things that get posted here. That's why they're out of character/plot/everything.

***ANOTHER NOTE: The Blouse, (that's the previous story) was conceived partially by my good friend _Edreya_ Natalya Irantaskvya.

***YET ANOTHER NOTE: thanks to everyone who reviewed

**General, obligatory note that I don't own any of this stuff.

The Boyfriend

"What is this I hear, Sandrilene?" The duke stalked into the parlor, clearly displeased, as was evident from his voice, which was somewhat sharper than he usually used with his niece.

"Uncle?" Sandry looked up, startled out of her intricate embroidery. The design was complicated enough, and to compound it, she was stitching a charm into every needle-stroke; she had not noticed her visitor. Quickly, she stood up.

"Thisyoung man you have taken up with," her guardian hinted dangerously.

"Oh, you mean Andril? Don't be silly, of course I wouldn't think of marrying him! We're just very good friends," she said, as if that explained everything

"Good friends," Vedris repeated slowly, "Do you realize that in your position your affections cannot be given so freely?

"Uncle!" Sandry exclaimed, "I'm an adult mage, in the Gods' name, I can give my affections to whoever I want!"

"Whomever, and I will not have you wandering around with every man who catches your fancy."

His niece rolled her eyes, "Andril has temporary vows to the temple; he wouldn't break them."

"If he is vowed, then why is he taken up with a women?" He demanded.

"We're friends, Uncle," Sandry insisted, "and colleagues," she added, "he's working on his thesis for Lightsbridge; charting ambient magic. Or trying too at least; it's silly to think that my magic, or Tris's or Briar's or Daja's can be charted" She tossed her head, her two long plaits flipping and twisting before settling against her back once more.

"The rest of your friends from the temple come visit you here," Duke Vedris observed, "why does this Good Friend stay away?"

"I've asked him time and again, Uncle," Sandry said earnestly, eyes innocently wide, "but he doesn't want to. He says that you'd be too intimidating, he imagines."

"Too intimidating," the duke echoed softly. "And why would he find me intimidating, unless he has been taking liberties he knows he should not have!" The last eight words crescendoed to a shout. 

"If he had tried anything, Uncle," Sandry assured, "I would have made him pay. You don't need to worry on that score.

"You are too young and innocent," Vedris said kindly, "it is enough that he will not come to you: I forbid you to see him again."

"You've never met him!" She exclaimed, "you can't do that!"

"In my day," he explained, with a slightly harder tone, "a young man would never have dared walk out with a girl to whose father he had not first applied for permission." While Sandry attempted to puzzle out his statement's rather convoluted grammar, he continued, "and with one so far above him in rank? It is intolerable the way morals have deteriorated!"

"But you always say yourself that a man's abilities aren't affected by his rank!" Sandry remonstrated.

"I do not deny that this Andril isable," the duke began tightly, beginning to become visibly irritated,

"Then I don't see what the problem is," Sandry interrupted briskly, "You're simply being stiff and old fashioned, Uncle."

"Since when," he thundered, "is having standards of common decency stiff and old fashioned? And for that matter," he enunciated every word clearly, "For that matter, Young Lady, what has caused You to speak so impudently to your elders." 

Sandry backed up a few paces. She had seen her uncle this angry only a few times; never had that anger been directed at herself. "Uncle," she said nervously, "please, tell me what is wrong,"

"What is wrong," he roared, "is your attitude! You have become willful and obstinate! You have no respect for your rank and duty thereto. You seem to seek to turn proper world order on its head! That, Sandrilene, is what is wrong'."

"I'm not any of those things," she said indignantly, "and furthermore, Uncle, I simply want to live a normal life, like anyone else my age."

"At your age, my niece, most common girls are working to earn a living. Noblewomen are preparing for marriage. Mages like you are at a respected University. The only ones who run about like you do are harlots lacking in virtue completely."

"Just because I want to be a little independent," Sandry started,

"Independent!" Her uncle shouted, "that is all that I hear. Independent! Independent! Let me advise you Sandrilene, independence is not a virtue!" He paused, breathing heavily. There was a long silence. Neither of the pair said a word. "Now," the duke began, "I believe I have made myself clear. There is to be no more talk of this Andril–or anyone else, for that matter. We will sit down and converse like civilized people. Am I understood?"

"Quite well," Sandry replied with an indolent smile, turning towards the door, "and I am leaving. I will be back for supper. Andril and I are taking a walk by the Arsenal." She slammed the door behind her, leaving Duke Vedris IV, the Iron-Willed Prince, fuming.


	3. The Boyfriend II

*NOTE: A couple of people have asked how old Sandry is. The answer: These are set some time after Magic Steps, when she's maybe 16 or so.

**ANOTHER NOTE: Thank you if you reviewed. I greatly appreciate it.

***YET ANOTHER NOTE: Special thanks to Eve of Mirkwood: You have come to the conclusion that you are supposed to come to: that Duke Vedris is not as good as he seems!

****STILL ANOTHER NOTE: This episode does NOT take place immediately following the previous one. A couple of weeks, maybe even a month lapses between them. 

*****If Tamora Pierce would expend her energies writing more books instead of chasing after people who don't write disclaimers waving a court order, the world would be a happier place. Nevertheless, I admit I don't own any of this, I just write about it.

EDITED 23/6/03: The plot hasn't changed at all, but I've revised some of the dialogue.

The Boyfriend II

The shadows were long against the old stone buildings that made up Summersea's ancient Carpenter's Quarter. Although not the wealthiest part of the city, the neighborhood had never degenerated into slum district; it was still a respectable street where wealthy merchants and even a few nobility could be seen strolling in the afternoon sun and browsing the shops. Even so, it had a neither crowded nor intrusive atmosphere. People went about their business and, for the most part, ignored whoever else might be passing. The duke himself could have walked through and found his subjects bending the knee only in his passing them by.

As it happened, the duke was not in the Carpenter's Quarter this particular day; he rarely was, in fact. His niece, Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, mused on this fact as she walked hand in hand with Andril Scartsvy.

"So what do you think, Sandry," he asked her earnestly, "is there anything to my theory?" He sighed. "Master Windfinder says it's all nonsense, this idea of mine," he continued morosely. "He told me last night I should give it up. He's my advisor; oughtn't I to listen to him?" He looked at his companion. "But something tells me I'll succeed if I just push a little farther!" His eyes lit up, as they always did when he talked about his work 

She looked up, startled from her thoughts. "Hmmm? I'm sorry, my mind left for a moment."

"My thesis," Andril repeated, "should I go on with it? _Is_ there anything there?" Sandry noted absently his slight Namornese accent; although living in Summersea for the past few years and now subjects of Emelan, her friend and his family were immigrants of Namorn, had a trace of the accent, causing him to pronounce th's a little like s's and z's. Sandry liked listening to him talk; her Namornese mother had spoken in the same manner, although with a more conspicuous accent.

"Of course you should go on," she reassured, "after all, isn't showing definitively that ambient magic _can't_ be tracked just as worthwhile as tracking it?"

"You are right," Andril said, "but," he paused, looking down, "I have never told you this, Sandry, but my grandfather, he is now dead, was a great mage, and he proved many things," he explained, letting go her hand. "I would like to follow him in proving great things. It is hard," he added, "having a famous relative"

Sandry laughed, "I know that well," she began, "my uncle," but at that moment the Citadel clock could be heard ringing the hour. "Five o'clock already!" Sandry exclaimed, "I'd best be getting back. Will you walk with me?"

"Of course!" Andril clasped her hand again. "I see you so little that I value any time in your company dearly." The noblewoman smiled at his gallantry and the pair set off towards the Duke's Citadel.

Some yards from the gates, Sandry stopped, pulling her friend to a similar halt. "You'd better not come any farther," she warned him; "I've told you about my uncle."

Andril bowed his head in assent. "I would not disobey His Grace."

Sandry raised her eyebrows. "You're practically doing it now."

He was silent for a moment. "When will I see you again?" He asked, changing the subject.

She crinkled her forehead in thought; "I don't know; it's hard to get out without the guards my uncle has assigned me. I'll send a message when I'm free to come."

He nodded; "Until then, Lady Sandry;" he drew her into an embrace, bringing his lips against hers. They kissed.

"Get a room!" A passing urchin yelled as Sandry drew away, her eyes shining.

"How dare he!" She exclaimed, but Andril only smiled:

"I shouted the same when I was his age."

The lady let out an angry breath. "Well then. But I can't imagine you behaving so rudely."

"We _are_ in a public place, my lady."

"Then," Sandry said with a glint in her eye, "let's give a good show." She pulled him towards her in a second, deep kiss, until

"What is this occurrence?" A stern yet familiar voice demanded.

"Uncle!" Sandry exclaimed, "What are you doing here?" As Andril made a deep obeisance, murmuring "Your Grace" in a stunned tone.

"It is I who put the question to you, Sandrilene." The duke made the statement a command for her to answer.

His niece drew herself up straighter. "I should think that was obvious, Uncle," she said, her voice only shaking a little. The guards standing a ways back smiled a bit at her daring. But they were impressed: it took spirit to stand up to the duke.

"Unfortunately so," was the reply. "My dear, I have told you a multitude of times that you must not behave licentiously; you appear to have neglected all of my warnings." Coming from another man, the words would have been kindly, not so from the ruler of Emelan.

"All of your fiats, more like," Sandry muttered.

"Speak more clearly, Sandrilene," her uncle requested; "no one can understand a person who mumbles." Sandry gritted her teeth. She hated being embarrassed at the best of times; being chastised like a child in the street in front of whoever might pass by was intolerable.

"Whomever, Sandrilene." The duke's correction was perfectly level and calm. His niece hadn't realized she had spoken aloud. She rolled her eyes.

"Your grammar, or lack thereof," the duke continued, is, however, beside the point. I have expressively forbidden you to see thisyoung man, and now I find you engaged in a most indecent and vulgar behavior with him. Have you anything to say for yourself?"

Sandry looked at her uncle, then at Andril, still on one knee in the street, and then back at her uncle. "We weren't behaving "indecently" or "vulgarly", Uncle," she said firmly, "It wasn't going to go anywhere beyond kissing." The duke flinched slightly at the last word.

"The act you were committing was bad enough," he explained icily, "but it pales beneath your sheer disobedience."

"Andril and I are young," she argued, "we were behaving naturally for people of our age."

"I see," the duke answered in a quiet but dangerous voice, "The standards of society have indeed deteriorated when such behavior in the street is considered natural. This I cannot believe; I know my people; they are not prone to such wantonness. Your sensibilities, then, must needs be corrected, my dear."

"You, Uncle," she accused, "are the one who needs to be corrected. You're old and bitter and just can't stand happiness in anyone else, can you?"

The prince's eyes flashed. "How dare you to make such accusations?" He asked softly; "Have you no respect?"

"Respect for what?" Sandry demanded, "Respect for old-fashioned prudery? Respect for heavy-handed tyranny? Just what should I respect, Your Grace?" There was heavy sarcasm in the honorific; everyone was taken aback at the noblewoman's blatant insolence.

The duke took a long, slow, breath. "Never," he ordered harshly, "speak that way to me again."

"Then," Sandry replied, "allow me more freedom. Let me see Andril."

"You misunderstand, my dear," her uncle was somewhat calmer, but no less stern, "it is not a matter negotiable. You will not, in the future, be so impertinent." He turned from her to look down at Andril, appearing to notice the young man for the first time. He fixed his gaze on the bowed head. Sandry was for a moment relieved that her uncle's anger was directed elsewhere, and then immediately felt guilty; Andril would be entirely unable to handle Vedris's wrath to which she was at least a little accustomed.

"What is your name?" He demanded of the kneeling boy.

"Andril Scartsvy, Your Grace." He looked up, although he did not meet the duke's eyes. His tone was clear, although quiet.

"You are Namornese?" For once, the duke asked a question rather than made a statement as was his wont.

"I was born in that country, Your Grace, and lived there until three years ago."

"But you are now a citizen of Emelan." 

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And as such, subject to my justice."

Andril bowed his head in assent. "Yes, Your Grace."

The duke nodded slowly. "Tell me," he catechized, after a pause of some length, "In Namorn, were you to have been caught taking such liberties with a relation of the Empress, what would have been your fate?" The duke's tone made it clear that he was well aware of the answer to his question.

It was plain that Andril knew the direction his interrogation was taking. He was beginning to shiver, from fear, Sandry guessed. "Death," Andril whispered.

The duke seemed to be waiting for elaboration to the answer. "A traitor's death, Your Grace," Andril clarified. Once again, Vedris nodded.

"Has it been in your experience to witness such a death, Scartsvy?" He asked. It might have been Sandry's imagination, but she thought she detected an unusual stress on her friend's name. Once again, she had the feeling that her Uncle knew what the boy would say.

"It has, Your Grace." The terror in Andril's voice was painfully evident. He was trembling, and drops of sweat were beginning to run down his face. 

"Uncle-" Sandry began, but her protest was cut off by a harsh command from the duke.

"Do not interrupt me." In contrast to his victim, the prince of Emelan appeared calm. The look he briefly gave his niece, however, would have persuaded otherwise. He turned by to the young man. 

"Our laws are not so dissimilar to those of our imperial cousin," he said. Sandry watched as Andril clenched his hands tightly. She could see him trying to breathe deeply and could almost hear his muttered prayers in his native language. It was then that she realized she had already put up with more than she could take.

"Uncle!" She exclaimed; "This is outside of enough! Now you're just being cruel!"

"You, Young Lady," Vedris ordered, not turning around, "are to be silent." He addressed Andril again. "As this wayward and disobedient girl is clearly as much to blame as you," he began, with the air of a judge pronouncing sentence, "it would be unjust to punish one without the other."

"I'm not "wayward and disobedient"!" Sandry objected loudly.

"Furthermore," the duke continued, "I would not put it past my deceitful niece to disinform you of my mandate, although," he added, "ignorance is not excused under the law."

"Lady Sandrilene had told me of Your Grace's command" Andril confessed, his voice trembling a little. Sandry was relieved to see that he was slightly more relaxed; it partially made up for the guilt she was currently experiencing. Why couldn't she have intervened earlier?

"Yet you willingly disobeyed?" The duke looked hard at the young man's face.

Andril closed his eyes. "Yes, Your Grace." His prince was silent for a long movement. Vedris appeared to be thinking, debating, with himself. At last he stepped back. 

"You have committed no infraction against my people," the duke pronounced, "and for that reason I can forgive your transgression against my person and the person of my niece. Go, and never come near her again!" He commanded.

Andril stood and bowed low. "Your Grace is kind," he said, but his voice cracked a little and there were tears in his eyes. The duke gave a curt nod, one that was at once both an acknowledgement and a dismissal. Andril bowed again, and, with a last, covert glance at Sandry, left. He was shaking, and very pale. 

"How could you, Uncle?" Sandry charged, her voice tight, "how could you do that to him?" She was almost crying; "Youyou're horrible. I hate you. I HATE YOU!" She burst into tears.

"Do you see, Sandrilene," her uncle asked, as coolly as if he were reading a report in his study, "where your disobedience leads? Not only do you disgrace yourself, but you bring distress on those you consider your friends."

"All I understand," Sandry said tremulously, "is that you frightened Andril out of his wits to punish me. That is neither just nor right."

"I did no more than the law permits," he stated flatly.

"You are the law, Uncle," she replied irately, rolling her eyes.

"Then, my dear, are you above the law that you disobey me? Is your friend Scartsvy above the law?" She didn't like the inflection he used on "friend".

"Don't be tiresome, Uncle," she sighed, "no one can be expected to obey all the ridiculous rules you make for me."

"Based on your recent behavior, the rules I set on you are entirely necessary," the duke countered. "You seem to be resolved to be as obstinate and disobedient as possible."

"I'm not!" Sandry asserted, "you're determined to think the worst of me all the time, aren't you!"

"What else can I think when I find my niece in an amorous embrace like some harlot of the worst degree?"

"I am not a harlot." Sandry spoke loudly and clearly, looking at her uncle as if she were of his height and not a good deal shorter. "I am only obstinate and disobedient when I am given no other course of action. I certainly am not deceitful. You are holding me to unreasonable expectations and rules that no longer apply to real life. If I need to change my ways, so do you."

He did not immediately reply to her statement. "I know you think I am harsh and unkind, Sandrilene," he began, his voice soothing yet iron-hard. "You think I was needlessly cruel to your Scartsvy and that I am needlessly strict with you. I realize that you have a desire to be as others your age, my dear, but I also know that much of what young people do these days it at odds with what is decent and what is right. What is popular is not always right, Sandrilene; in truth, it is often wrong."

His niece turned from him. "I don't believe that, Uncle. You're too hard on me and my peers."

"If I am severe," he said sharply, "it is for your own good, that you may repair your flaws."

Sandry shook her head. "You're wrong. You're so caught up in your own notion of virtue that you ignore changing times."

"Virtue and the virtuous life does not change, Sandrilene." He was once again angry. "You have much to learn, it seems."

"If I do, it isn't anything _you_ can teach me," she shot back.

"That we shall see," he replied ominously. "My dear, the thoroughfare is no place for this discussion. We will continue over our supper."

"I need to walk alone for a little while, Uncle," she said, unconvincingly bright, "I'll be along in a bit."

"So" the duke's eyes narrowed, "you would still disobey me? You would go off to meet your lover yet? It will do you no good," he informed her, "Scartsvy has learned the price of challenging my will."

"Because you chased him away!" She accused.

"Would he have been so acquiescent if he had not realized his wrongdoing? I do not think so."

"He left because you scared him off," Sandry told her uncle, "that is plain for anyone to see."

" The innocent do not fear'," the duke quoted a well-known proverb. "Now come with me, Sandrilene," he ordered, "Do you really believe that after your disgraceful behavior today I will reward you with the freedom to go as you please?"

"Oh," Sandry said sarcastically, "so now I'm to be rewarded, like an animal or an infant, for good behavior and punished for bad? I think not, Uncle!" She turned to walk away, but the duke placed a hand on her shoulder, effectively checking her retreat. She tried to shake him off, but to no avail. 

"I will bring you to submission, my girl," he said softly to her. "Now will you come meekly or must I carry you."

"I'm not going!" She insisted with gritted teeth.

"Am I forced to carry you?" He asked mildly, "and then send you off to bed with a beating like an unruly child?"

Sandry looked down. "I'll go," she said softly, "but not because I wish it." The duke smiled.

****


	4. The Facts of Life

NOTE: Thanks to all my reviewers.

Lady Taigan: did you really mean to submit the same review five times?

Lady Sandrilene: if you flame every parody and semi-parody, you'll burn out quite soon.

NOTE: Prize if you catch the Measure for Measure allusion. (Not that I can afford any kind of prize, but perhaps I can persuade my good friend the _Edreya_ to donate a serf)

NOTE: I, obviously, don't own these characters or their home.

The Facts of Life

It was a chill, autumn evening. Lady Sandrilene fa Toren sat by the fire in her uncle's study, glad of it's flickering warmth on this cool night. Her embroidery lay in her lap; intermittently, she picked it up to make a few stitches. It was lovely, she thought to herself, to be able to relax and do nothing by stare into the fire. Her uncle would be in momentarily, and he would sit and read reports, occasionally asking her opinion about some detail. It would be a peaceful few hours, as always. With a sigh, Sandry forced herself to pick up her neglected work: if she were to finish it for the charity exhibition, she would have to begin. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn't notice her uncle enter.

"Good evening, my dear." The grave voice interrupted her thoughts. The girl sprang to her feet.

"Good evening, Uncle." The duke motioned for his niece to sit. However, the chair he gestured her to was not the one in which she had been lounging. Rather, it was across from his own, on the other side of the great ducal desk. Vedris sat in his usual place, where on an ordinary night, he would review reports from his many subordinates and petitions from his subjects. When she was relatively comfortable, the duke coughed nervously.

"Sandrilene," he began seriously, "It has come to my note that a certain matter must be discussed amongst us."

"What matter, Uncle?" Sandry asked, mentally reviewing everything she had done in the past week for something her guardian would disapprove of.

The duke, as was his habit, did not answer her question. "I would that my lady wife were alive," he said pensively, "but, alas, she has passed from this life." He traced the gods-circle on his chest and bowed his head for a moment. Sandry followed his gesture and waited. It was a very long moment. She couldn't help but let a little sigh of exasperation escape her as the minutes ticked by. It was barely more than an intake and release of breath, but her uncle looked up sharply.

"You show great disreverence, Sandrilene," he chastened, "Can it be that you have no respect for the memory of your Great Aunt?"

"I-" about so say "I did nothing," Sandry stopped, thinking better of it. "I didn't mean any disrespect, Uncle, truly," she said earnestly, "I'm very sorry." If the answer failed to satisfy Vedris, his only sign was a stern look.

"Very well, child," he answered. "Before I was interrupted," he continued, "I had been in the process of explaining to you that I would rest easier if your Aunt were able to take the burden of speaking to you on this subject. As, however, she is no longer with us," he paused once more to make the gods circle. Sandry sat perfectly still through the moment of silence, wondering if she were only imagining that it was nearly twice as long as the first. "I will not shirk my duty." It took Sandry a moment to connect the two parts of his sentence. Even then she was still completely in the dark.

"Pardon me, Uncle," she inquired meekly, "but what are you talking about?"

"There are certain flowers, Sandrilene," the duke went on, apparently ignoring her question, "upon which is resident pollen. Other certain flowers have a receptacle for this pollen."

"I know all this, Uncle," Sandry said, puzzled, "I lived with plant mages for four years."

"Do not interrupt your elders, Sandrilene," Vedris admonished, "this is for your own good."

Sandry rolled her eyes, but was silent.

"The bee," he continued, "alights upon the flower, for the purpose of gaining its nectar. In this process, modica of pollen adhere to his feet and when he makes aviation once more, carry themselves with him. The bee then alights on another flower, where the modica of pollen disadhere from him and bring themselves into the receptacle thereon. In this manner, the flower is made fertile and able to bear fruit. Do you understand, my dear?"

"What I don't understand is why you're telling this to me, Uncle," she replied frankly, "what's the point?"

The duke looked just the slightest bit uncomfortable. Quickly, his face resumed its usual mask of calm. "You are a young lady, Sandrilene. I would not let you out into the world disforewarned as to the ways of men and women."

"Uncle," Sandry said, "you're telling me about _flowers_." Then it dawned on her. The birds and bees. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "You don't need to do _that_ for me, Uncle."

Vedris went on as if he had not heard. "When I was your age, my dear, no, some years senior, my lord father appointed me to sit as a judge of certain cases. During this period, a girl of your years was brought before me under the charge of fornication."

"What's fornication?" Sandry asked.

"It was most clear to me that she was guilty," her uncle continued, ignoring her question, "but I was moved to pity for her; she gave the appearance of an innocent taken in by what she did not know. Nevertheless, under the law it was obligatory that she be sentenced, and I did not shirk my duty, unpleasant as it was."

"How-" the duke looked at his niece, "How did you know she was guilty?" Sandry asked.

Vedris paused, "The girl wasvisibly with child." Sandry's mind was putting two and two together.

"Uncle," she said, "I don't think you understand. I know how babies are made. I know what happens between a man and a woman-" The duke flinched. "-And I know the consequences. I'm not an ignorant child!"

Her guardian looked severe. "Who gave you this information?"

"Pirsi," Sandry replied, "my nurse."

The duke gasped. "At such an age? What I would do to thatwoman who corrupted my innocent niece!" He exclaimed.

"It didn't corrupt me!" Sandry protested, "I'm perfectly fine!"

"Do not contradict your elders, girl," he ordered between clenched teeth. "Now I understand," he murmured softly. "Now I see the root of your disobedient nature."

"I don't have a disobedient nature!" Sandry complained, "Why don't you ever say anything nice about me, Uncle?"

"Be silent!" he ordered. "You say that your nurse told you of the manner of re-creation in all its lurid detail?" He asked.

"She had my mother's permission," Sandry excused, "and anyway, I don't see what the big deal is. I would have learned it all by now in any case."

"By what means?"

"Everyone know the facts of life, Uncle. I probably know where we come from better than you do. Or not," she said, reconsidering, "you've actually had children." As soon as the words were out, she cursed herself. Now you've really done it, she thought. That's the kind of joke you make with your friends, not your great-uncle.

"I will not tolerate," the duke was saying, "that sort of lewd and vulgar innuendo in anyone, least of all my niece!"

"I'm sorry," Sandry said honestly, "I really shouldn't have said that. It was totally inappropriate."

"That you were thinking it, Sandrilene," Vedris replied icily, "shows you to be or the worst sort of lascivious harlot."

"A lascivious harlot," Sandry couldn't resist coming back with, "would be thinking much worse." Immediately, she regretted her words, particularly, as her uncle's eyes blazed up once more.

"Remove your person from my sight!" He commanded.

"I'm leaving. I'm going for a walk." Her tone was purposely flippant. It annoyed him, as she had know it would

"That you are not." It was more than a statement. Her uncle made it a royal order, that even in this frame of mind Sandry was in no mood to disobey. "You shall not leave the citadel until I have personally dealt with you. Tonight, however, more important matter demand my attention." He turned to the first report on his desk.

Sandry paused for a moment at the door. "You may leave." The duke's dismissal was icy.

"I'll be in my room then." She left, not slamming the door in her wake, but closing it very forcefully. Vedris IV, ruler of all Emelan, sighed, then turned back to his work.

****


	5. Curfew I

2-17-03-THIS IS THE NEWEST EPISODE. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

Due to my own laziness, and the kindness of a friend, this episode comes courtesy of the Edreya Natalya. She does not have the rights to these characters, locales, and events either, and takes no responsibility for the misuse and satirization of said characters, etc.

Curfew I

Lady Sandrilene fa Toren had quietly unlocked the front door, tiptoed through the hall, and was halfway up the stairs when a voice bellowed, 

"SANDRILENE! WHERE IN THE GODS' NAMES HAVE YOU BEEN?! DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, YOUNG LADY?!?!" Sandry froze, mentally cursing herself. Apparently, her great uncle was not sound asleep as she had thought; he was wide-awake, standing at the foot of the staircase in his nightshirt. The lit match he held aloft illuminated his face, a complete mask of rage. 

"Come down to my study at once and explain yourself!" Duke Vedris, supreme ruler of Emelan, yelled, no more calmly, giving his niece another fearsome glare before stalking off down the hallway, muttering to himself. Sandry sighed and reluctantly returned to the ground floor, dragging her feet on her way. In the past few months, she had become an expert in dealing with her uncle's displeasure, but his beginning the conversation in a rage did not bode well for Sandry. She intended to give him as much time to cool down as possible. Slipping quietly into the study, she slid the door shut, then stood before her uncle, her blue eyes proud and defiant. 

"So, my wayward niece sees fit to return home at last," he remarked dryly. "I don't suppose you would care to explain yourself?" Although Vedris appeared much calmer, his snapping eyes warned Sandry that his anger had not subsided.

"I went out with my friends, like I told you I would. We returned a bit late, as I told you we might. I don't understand the problem," Sandry stated firmly. 

"The problem? The problem? My niece is prowling city streets at night like a harlot and she is at a loss the describe the problem?" Vedris cried.

"But I told you where I was going-" Sandry started, deciding not to contest her uncle's choice of words just then.

"That makes no difference!" Vedris roared, leaping from his chair. "You have returned at an hour much too late for propriety! You will bring shame on your good name!" 

Sandry rolled her eyes. "I doubt the people of Summersea are interested in the hours I keep."

"On the contrary, my dear, a person in your position cannot be too careful. You must take great care to protect your reputation," he warned loudly.

"I don't believe this!" Sandry muttered angrily. 

Vedris proceeded as if he had not heard. "Maybe at that temple- well I regret entrusting your tender years to that pack of liberal fools- they allowed you to run wild, but while under my roof, you shall adhere to my codes of behavior!"

"That 'pack of liberal fools' includes the best mages in your realm!" Sandry countered, eyes blazing blue fire. "Where would you be without them?"

"Great mages or no, they have encouraged in my niece that which I would had been eradicated!" Vedris paced angrily around the room. 

"At least they trusted me! They didn't treat me like a child!" cried Sandry. 

"A trust sadly misplaced, as you have already this night betrayed mine," Vedris observed. Whirling to face his niece, he clenched his fist and slammed it into the tabletop, adding, "But we avoid the issue. As you have failed to sufficiently excuse your tardiness, I will now pass judgment upon you, and assign suitable reparations and penance." 

"You're acting like I'm a criminal!" Sandry exclaimed. "I'm a teenager, Uncle! I just want to have a little fun!" 

"'A little fun'?" echoed Vedris dangerously. "What does this 'fun' consist of?" 

Now what? Sandry wondered, wary of the turn this conversation was taking; now she would certainly be up half the night further debating her virtue. Bets on how many times he calls me a harlot, she thought wearily. Aloud, she said, " You know: seeing my friends. I wasn't that late, and you knew where I was. I don't see what's left to discuss."

"In my day, "Vedris announced as his niece groaned inwardly, "the only people to roam the night were thieves and harlots." (That's one! Sandry noted.) "I hardly believe the situation has changed so much?" He peered closely at her as he delivered this question. 

"Honestly, Uncle!" Sandry yelled. "You hold Council meetings at night and go for walks with Yazmin at night. Yazmin even performs at night!" Vedris's face flushed an astonishing shade of purple. Not entirely sure if he was embarrassed or enraged, Sandry pressed heedlessly on. "Isn't that just the same? Or is it that when it's you, or your precious Yazmin, it's perfectly proper, but it makes me a slutty criminal?"

"Sandrilene!" the duke was shocked. "Watch your language, young lady!"

"Well, isn't it the same?" she demanded. "It's hypocritical and you know it. No one can criticize Yazmin, but-"

"The cases are entirely different, and I will thank you to leave Yazmin out of this!" roared Vedris, still purple-faced. 

"Open your eyes, Uncle!" shouted the girl. "I wait up for you all the time. Your meetings run later than this quite often, and you know it. You have no grounds to attack me like this!"

"I-I-I," the duke sputtered. The room was silent for a minute. Sandry waited expectantly until her uncle broke the silence. 

"The hour is late. I am going to bed, and you would be wise to do the same. We will finish this discussion later." The duke hurried from the room, avoiding his niece's gaze. Sandry watched him retreat, a victorious smile lighting her proud face.


	6. Curfew II

***If I haven't made it clear: these are semi-separate scenes. Please don't get your hopes up for a continuing plot. There isn't one.

***Thanks for reviewing. If you don't know what I'm talking about, there's a nice little button at the bottom of the page!

***Lady Sandrilene: why do you keep returning to this worthless story?

Once again: I do not own this. I do not want to own this. I am not trying to supplant Tamora Pierce's books. I am not trying to offend die-hard fans.

Curfew

"My lady?" The guard's voice was respectful but insistent. "Lady Sandrilene, you'd best be leaving now.

"It's not even nine o'clock yet, Oama," Sandry complained, "I've only been here a few hours."

"It's my head that will be sitting a-top Traitor's Gate if His Grace is angry, my lady," she was reminded softly, "please; won't you go back?" 

"No." The young noblewoman was firm. "I have my uncle's permission to be here and his trust in my judgement to leave at the appropriate time. I do not require a nursemaid as well." It was a clear dismissal; the older woman bowed slightly and retreated.

Sandry turned back to her companion, relieved. "I'm so sorry," she apologized, "everyone around me seems to think that I'm still six years old." The man nodded. "The Unmagic you worked, you are saying?" He asked hesitantly. Sandry sighed. The man was a dedicate from a temple in a remote part of Capchen. His Common was terrible. In fact, he probably hadn't had the faintest idea what she had just said. Not for the first time that evening, she wished her foster-sister Trisana Chandler were there. But Tris refused to go to parties, even to talk to other mages. She preferred to frequent the vast libraries of Winding Circle for magical discussion. Pushing that thought aside, Sandry slowly began to explain again her experience with the strange substance of Unmagic.

The hours always flew by at such gatherings, and tonight they made no exception. Before she knew it, Sandry was hearing a distant clock strike. Idly, at first, she counted the strokes. Ten and a quarter hours past midday. She quickly calculated: her curfew was half past nine. An hour and a quarter late. No, an hour and three-quarters, accounting for the time it would take her to reach the citadel. The young woman's heart sank. I'll explain it to him,' she rationalized, I'll tell him that I was keeping track of the time, but it got from me. He'll understand when I tell him that I was wrapped up in the conversation and didn't realize how late it was. And it isn't that late.'

The citadel was silent, as it often was at this hour, or at any. The duke customarily retired early, as did his staff. Perhaps,' Sandry thought to herself as she climbed the stairs, I can sneak in and no one the wiser.' It would, at least, put off the inevitable until tomorrow morning when her uncle, she knew, would question her guards as to the time of her return. She ordered her clothes to be silent as she passed the door to the ducal study. 

"So, Sandrilene," said a voice from inside the room, "You see it fit to return at long last." Bracing herself, Sandry entered. Her uncle was sitting at his desk, apparently reading. He did not motion for her to seat herself, but instead let her continue to stand before him.

"What have you to say for yourself?" The duke asked.

Sandry was silent for a moment, trying to phrase her excuses in a way to make them sound less childish.

"Did it, perchance, occur in your mind to think that I might have been worried for you?" He continued, his voice boring into her ears. "Thus you show yourself a girl without thought or consideration."

"Uncle" Sandry began, "Uncle, I'm really sorry. I was thinking about the time-" No', a nasty little voice in her mind said, Oama was thinking about the time and you ignored her.' She pushed the nasty voice aside. "I was talking to a mage from Capchen and I didn't realize how late it had gotten. It won't happen again, I promise," she finished earnestly.

"Too many times you have returned at an unduly late hour, Sandrilene," the duke said gravely.

"Once before," Sandry corrected, "I've been late only once before this."

"In that instance, I was lenient," he said. "I hoped that my forbearance would be an impetus to your better behavior, but I see now that I was erroneous in that placement of my trust."

"Cut me some slack, Uncle," Sandry pleaded, "I really didn't mean it."

"I have told you a thousand times and more that I forbid the use of such base vulgarisms, Sandrilene," the prince reminded her severely, "you will reiterate your statement in less coarse terms."

Sandry rolled her eyes. "Will you please be less harsh in you no-doubtfully entirely justified punishment of me due to the fact that I am very sorry for my fault," she restated with exaggerated politeness.

"You are not to be to so insolent," he ordered. "Your contrition," Vedris continued, leaning back in his seat, at least, as much as it was possible to lean back in one of the perfectly straight-backed, cushion-less chairs that were the only sort permitted in the citadel, "Is meritorious. Notwithstanding, we do not emancipate the malefactor for the reason that he is repentant. I ought not to have been so clement in the last instance of your dilatoriness, as it has set a disquietsome precedent." It took Sandry a moment to discern his meaning. It was late and she was tired, having been on her feet all evening.

"Can you please make it quick, Uncle," she requested, "I'm exhausted."

"You were not so fatigued when you overstayed at that soiree seven quarters of an hour," he observed impassively. 

"I was only an hour and three quarters late," Sandry protested. Her uncle looked at her, and she turned red, realizing her mistake. "Can I at least sit down?" She asked, "otherwise I'll collapse."

"Did you sit at the gathering of mages?"

"No-o."

"Did you collapse there?"

"No. But Uncle, that was earlier."

"Your constitution has withstood you throughout the night thus far," was the duke's stern reply; "it will not desert you now." Sandry leaned on his desk, wondering if it would rest her feet to lift them one at a time.

"Stand straightly, Sandrilene." She hated that didactic tone!

"I'm too tired," she complained.

"Do not whine, Sandrilene," he instructed, "it is the habit of an urchin, not a noblewoman. And erect yourself!" He snapped, "Do not slouch like an overworked chambermaid!"

Sandry gave him a weak glare. "Since you are so wearied after these occasions," the duke continued. "You have no longer my permission to present yourself thither."

"Then I'll go without your permission," Sandry threatened wildly. Her saner self began to beat her unruly tongue with a measuring stick.

"You are overtired, my dear," Vedris said, "you will ask my pardon for your contumacy, and that will be the end of this subject. As chastisement for tonight's belatedness, I confine you to your room for the week. It is a wholly mild punishment and will most readily facilitate your correction." 

Sandry's sane self would have told her to curtsey and apologize. However, her sane self sometimes deserted her for a moment at times when she was the least bit tired. She simply stared at the her uncle for a moment, then turned and shuffled out and up the stairs to her own room. The duke stood, and went after her. Grabbing his niece by the shoulder, he turned her to face him.

"You are a disobedient and recalcitrant girl," he told her through clenched teeth. "But you _will_ defer to my will." Slowly, he forced her to her knees. Sandry looked up at her uncle. He was very tall from the ground. "Apologize!" He commanded. Sandry gave in. She just wanted to go to bed. 

"Uncle," she said, "I truly and fully beg your pardon for my insolence." If the prince noticed her apology was somewhat forced, he gave no sign of it.

"And I fully pardon it," he answered, raising her. Now get you to bed, Sandrilene." 

****


	7. Makeup

EDREYA NATALYA WROTE THIS EPISODE.

She doesn't own these characters either.

(This story is not open to reader submissions, in case you were wondering. The Edreya and I have an understanding, and she does not have a fanfiction.net account)

Makeup

Lady Sandrilene fa Toren sighed gratefully as the bells rang four times, signaling the approach of evening. She carefully packed up her needlework, forcing herself to arrange everything neatly. Although the thread mage normally enjoyed practicing her craft, this afternoon she was too excited to concentrate. Still, she had forced herself to get a little of her work done. Now, having a few hours of sewing behind her, she could finally get ready for her night out.

Sandry hurried to her vanity table, opening the carved wooden box in which she kept her make-up, the finest powders and salves to be had in all Summersea. She dusted her face lightly with powder, then brushed a smoky glistening color around her eyes. Finally, she painted her lips a glossy crimson and colored her cheeks a light pink. Ready at last, she threw her cloak over her shoulders and tripped gaily down the staircase to the front hall.

"Goodbye, Uncle!" she called, and motioned for the guards to open the massive front doors.

"Not so fast, my dear," Duke Vedris, the aforementioned uncle, said 

pleasantly, entering the hall. "I thought I should come down to see" His voice trailed off as he studied his great-niece. His expression grew grave, then suddenly brightened.

"Why, Sandrilene!" he exclaimed, too-heartily. "You forgot to wash your face, silly girl. You-"

"Don't be foolish, Uncle," Sandry broke in, rolling her eyes, "I did wash my face. This is make-up."

"Oh, make-up, is it?" Vedris said. His tone was calm, but his rigid expression and snapping eyes suggested that his temper was struggling to flare out of control.

"Sandrilene, I think there are a few things we need to discuss. Would you be so good as to step into my study?" asked the duke, in a strained voice.

"We can talk right here," Sandry announced firmly, "as I'm late already."

"We will talk in my study," Vedris snapped. "Now!"

Sandry sighed, but complied to the order, as the guards exchanged furtive looks and snickered. Vedris closed the study door firmly.

"Now, Sandrilene," he said, "exactly what do you think you're doing? I do not know what has gotten into you these days."

"Well, Uncle," she replied dryly, "I was on my way to meet my friends, but at the moment I'm being held up by my uncle for no reason."

"Do not get smart with me, young lady! You know perfectly well why we are having this discussion!" Vedris snapped.

"Actually, I don't, since we haven't discussed anything yet," Sandry said. 

"Can we please finish this conversation later? I'm late."

"May we, and no, we may not!" her uncle yelled. "And as for your friends, you are perfectly free to meet them, provided you wash that infernal...STUFF off your face!"

"Honestly, Uncle! Make-up is the latest fashion! I'm not doing any harm!" cried Sandry, exasperated.

"On the contrary, young lady, you know very little of the irreparable harm you can wreak upon yourself by acting in such an irresponsible, loose moraled fashion," Vedris stated, trying to rein in his temper, and succeeding only partially.

"I know what I'm doing, Uncle!" Sandry yelled.

"Oh, do you now?" her uncle said sarcastically. "And please go and wash your face. This is not negotiable!"

"You just don't want me to have any fun. You're an old-fashioned spoil-sport!" she shouted.

"Excuse me?" Vedris said dangerously, glaring at his great-niece. 

"Old-fashioned? Why, in my day, not only would no girl, not even the worst sort of harlot, have dared to paint her face, but all women of status wore veils. My mother, my sisters, my wife and my oldest daughters all wore veils when walking out into the scrutiny of the outside world."

"What?!" Sandry exclaimed, astounded.

"Sadly, that great custom has deteriorated over the years," continued Vedris, ignoring her outburst. "However, with any more recalcitrance on your part, my girl, to conform to conventional standards of propriety, I believe we could see it revived. And a good thing too, considering the way you young people act. Naive young girls like yourself need all the protection they can get, since they- and you- insist on running about like harlots."

Vedris paused for breath, and Sandry quickly interrupted the tirade. "I'm not a harlot! And as for the veils, that's just an example of how you used to oppress women."

"I beg your pardon?" Vedris said steelily.

Sandry ignored him. "I can't believe you made your family walk around like that. Talk about sexist! It would be like wearing a funeral shroud!"

An ominous silence fell over the room, as Vedris planned his response. "It was nothing like that," he insisted darkly, "as you will soon see if you continue to cross me. You will not go out with that stuff on your face, and if 

I have to see you triply veiled to ensure that, then so be it!" These last words were roared so loudly that the ceiling shook and the chandelier jiggled dangerously.

"I-" Sandry began, then thought better of it. "Very well," she said stiffly, "as you wish, Uncle. I'll go wash it off."

"Good," Vedris said, still fuming, but pleased matters were going his way at last. "Someday, you'll thank me, Sandrilene, for saving your virtue."

"I doubt it," she hissed. "It's not like it was in any danger!" With that Sandry turned, giving her uncle a cursory wave, then strode from the room, heading in the direction of the washroom.

"Great gods!" Vedris whispered. "Maybe there's hope for the girl!"

Meanwhile, as soon as she was out of sight, Sandry doubled back around, rushing to a side gate to begin her evening out, mentally reminding herself to wash her face before saying good night to her uncle.

****


	8. Left Handedness

***Thank you to my reviewers! (Hint Hint Hint)

(Lady Anne: If Sandry went back to Winding Circle, there wouldn't be a story)

*****I am co-opting characters belonging to Tamora Pierce for the purposes of amusing myself. I am not trying to impersonate the aforesaid author in anyway nor am I attempting to create works of the caliber of the aforesaid author. I am also not trying to offend any diehard fans of the aforesaid author. I am not implying, in any way, that the personalities and/or traits of the characters as presented in my story are, in actuality, the personalities an/or traits that the said characters exhibit in the published and copyrighted books of the aforesaid Tamora Pierce. (I.e. Sandry may not be, and probably isn't, left-handed.) I think that's enough disclaiming, on to the story.

Left-Handedness

Lady Sandrilene fa Toren hummed softly to herself as she wrote. She had been feeling guilty for the past few days, ever since the latest letter from her foster sister, Trisana Chandler had arrived. No one would have thought the snappish, somewhat retiring Tris to be a letter-writer, but she had surprised everyone when, isolated from her foster-siblings at the University of Lightsbridge, she had begun churning out missives almost faster than they could be posted and read. Although she had calmed down somewhat, Sandry received long epistles from her every few weeks. 

_There's been a dedicate from Northern Capchen staying at Winding Circle. I wish he was able to meet you, but he's leaving a few weeks before- _

"You wish that the dedicate **were** able to meet your foster sister, my dear," a quiet, yet commanding voice admonished. "You are quite neglective of the subjunctive tense, Sandrilene." 

Sandry jumped, startled by the interruption. "Uncle," she exclaimed, beginning to rise, "how long have you been-"

"The subjunctive," Duke Vedris reminded her, gently pressing on her shoulder to indicate that she was to remain seated.

"Oh." Sandry said, ducking her head, "yes. The subjunctive." She took up a damp cloth there for the purpose and painstakingly wiped the still wet ink off the paper as best she could. Fortunately linen rags had gone into the making of this sheet, and she silently forced the fibers to give up their last drops of the dye. In the blank space that remained, she carefully corrected and finished the sentence: "_I wish he were able to meet you, but he's leaving a few weeks before you get back_." She stopped writing and looked up at her uncle.

He simply motioned for her to continue. "I will be content to observe."

The girl looked quizzically at him, but turned back to her writing. Now that she was being watched, however, she couldn't think of a thing to write. Sandry started to chew absently on the end of her pen, before she remembered who was in the room with her. _I was telling him about your magic, and he seemed very interested. Of course, maybe he was just being polite_, she wrote at last. As she formed her letters, her hand dragged through the ones already written. Suppressing a curse, she reached for her cloth once again.

"If you did not write with the incorrect hand, Sandrilene," the duke advised, "Not only would you be relieved of this problem, but your letters would be better formed."

"It isn't wrong to write with my left hand, Uncle," Sandry answered.

"Your script, my dear, is alike to that of a child. If you were to use your right hand, this disability would be resolved," he stated frankly, seating himself next to her. "I do not know what my nephew was thinking, to allow this error to progress unchecked."

"My handwriting isn't that bad!" Sandry exclaimed. "And it would be even worse if I tried to use my right hand," she added.

"If you were not so recalcitrant to the idea, Sandrilene," he chastised icily, "you would practice writing correctly, and soon your penmanship would be better than before."

"My handwriting is fine!" His niece protested, "it sets off my psyche! It's a part of who I am," she continued seriously, "if you make me change it, you'll be suppressing an essential part of my personality!"

The duke rolled his eyes. "Essential part of your personality, indeed," he scoffed. "I really do not know where you are getting all these maudlin ideas, Sandrilene."

"They're not maudlin," Sandry said indignantly, "I am a unique individual, Uncle, like everyone else, and I deserve to be respected for who I am."

"You will refrain from parroting this leftist drivel in my presence!" Vedris thundered.

"Would it still be leftist if I wrote it with my right hand?" Sandry couldn't help but ask.

"Do not mock me, my girl," her uncle ordered from between gritted teeth, "I am only attempting to promote your well being, in body and in spirit."

"My spirit is fine, Uncle."

"Is it, Sandrilene?" He demanded softly, "When was the last time you attended Temple services with me?"

Sandry looked down briefly. "I don't need-" she began, but the duke interrupted her.

"No, do no answer me; but reflect, Sandrilene, on the misdeed you have committed." He was silent for a moment. "Yet we digress, my dear, from the matter first set before us. I shall arrange for a scribe of the citadel to instruct you in penmanship."

"I'm not a child, Uncle," the girl said angrily, "I don't need writing lessons."

"You yourself, Sandrilene," he replied calmly, "have said that you cannot write well with the correct hand. If this is the case, then you must needs be tutored in it. If it is not the case, and you have lied to me-" his eyes blazed. "I will place my trust in you, my dear, however," he finished kindly, "it is my sincere hope you will not betray it."

"I don't think you understand, Uncle," Sandry said loudly and clearly. "I. Will. Not. Switch. Hands."

"Will you disobey me?" There was a dangerous tone in the prince's voice.

"I'll obey you," she answered, "as long as you don't give ridiculous commands."

"And you take it upon yourself to determine which of my directives are fit to be followed?"

"Yes." She knew it was the wrong answer as soon as she had said it.

"If citizen, Sandrilene," the duke began, "chose which laws to obey and which to flout, if a subject of Emelan took it upon himself to decide whether a statute was to be complied with, what would be the result?"

"It depends which law," Sandry argued, "some laws are bad. They shouldn't be followed."

"Socialist propaganda," the duke snapped. "It is the duty of the prince, my dear, to judge the suitability of the law and the place of the subject to comply to it. Likewise, it is not your place to determine the worth of the directives I give you, simply to follow them. Now, you will become proficient in writing with the correct hand."

"As you wish, Uncle," Sandry said meekly, but with a hint of a devilish grin. She picked up her pen and continued her letter--with her left hand. 

"Insubordination!" Roared Vedris.

Sandry smiled, she was feeling particularly reckless today, "Get used to it, Uncle."

****


	9. Language I

****

WRITTEN BY EDREYA NATALYA

Who is not currently in possession of any of the characters, places, or names used herein. Neither is she responsible for any anger, umbrage, or offense taken at the use of the aforesaid characters &c. in this story.

The Shocking Question of Sandry's Language

Absorbed in her thoughts, Lady Sandrilene fa Toren walked through the palace's guard-flanked front door. She had just returned from teaching- or rather, attempting to teach- a very advanced piece of magic to her young protege, Pasco. However, by the end of the lesson, he had still not mastered the new concept. All the way home, Sandry had been pondering how best to explain it to him. But her mind was infuriatingly devoid of ideas. Perhaps after supper she would visit Winding Circle Temple to consult with other mages...

Sandry was jarred from her thoughts as she suddenly stumbled over an uneven flagstone in the entry hall floor, twisting her ankle and falling to the ground in an undignified heap. 

"Cat dirt!" she exclaimed, and followed it with several much coarser expressions she had learned from her foster-brother, the ex-thief Briar Moss. Still cursing, she sat up, and rubbed her ankle.

The sight of the usually dignified great-niece of their ruler sprawled cursing on the floor was too much for the guards, who burst out laughing. Sandry flushed and got sheepishly to her feet, sending the guards a self-conscious grin. Then she too began to laugh, realizing how ridiculous she must have looked.

Loud footsteps heralded the Duke's arrival. He stormed angrily into the hall. The guards and Sandry froze, and hastily tried to compose themselves under the stern gaze of the ruler of all Emelan.

"Sandrilene, I am most disappointed you, " Duke Vedris declared. "What on earth has possessed you to act in such a vulgar and unseemly manner?!"

Sandry didn't dare answer for fear she would start laughing again. Luckily for her, the duke had only begun his tirade, and did not expect an answer.

"You were brought up to know better than to speak in such a filthy way. Honestly, I don't know what has gotten into you these days!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Sandry gasped. "I couldn't help it."

One of the guards snickered. Vedris raised his eyebrows, and then said sternly, "You must control yourself, Sandrilene. You are a young lady. Young ladies do not demean themselves by speaking so crudely. There is no excuse for such a lack of decorum. You must set an example."

"I said I was sorry," Sandry repeated, annoyed.

"A mere apology us not enough for such a serious offense!" cried Vedris. "Your behavior was entirely inappropriate!"

"Well, Uncle," Sandry answered, "sometimes 'cat dirt' just isn't strong enough. I am sorry though."

"Sandrilene!" shouted the Duke. "Do I have to wash your mouth out with soap, young lady? If you continue to spew such obscenities, that will be my only recourse."

"But I didn't say anything bad just now!" Sandry objected. "All I said was 'cat dirt'-"

"SANDRILENE! I have been more than patient. Now, hold your tongue while I consider how to deal with you!" ordered her irate uncle.

Several of the guards exchanged mirthful grins and bit their lips to keep from laughing aloud. Meanwhile, Sandry refused to be silenced.

"You're over-reacting, Uncle! It was just a few harmless words!"

"Dare I believe my ears? Harmless? My dear girl, that sort of talk degrades the speaker, poisons the mind, blisters the tongue, and is the most vile, vulgar offense that can be committed! It is the talk of harlots, not that of sweet, innocent young girls!" bellowed Vedris.

"Maybe I'm not a sweet, innocent little girl anymore," Sandry retorted. "I've grown up. I'm an adult mage, and you can't control me anymore! I don't have to answer to you about anything!"

For a moment, Duke Vedris was rendered speechless. Then he thundered, "I am your guardian. Until you are of age, I am responsible for you. This responsibility includes curbing your willful, vulgar spirit. Now, for the last time, HOLD YOUR TONGUE!"

"Excuse me?" Sandry didn't believe her ears.

"You heard me, Sandrilene!" was the emphatic reply. Vedris's steely eyes dared his niece to defy him.

This exchange proved too much for the guards. They began howling with laughter, slapping each other on the back, and falling to the ground.

"Silence!" ordered the duke. It took several minutes for the command to be obeyed. Even then, it was an uneasy silence, punctuated by an occasional snort or muffled giggle.

"Now, Sandrilene," said her uncle, "you will retire to your chamber, there to remain until I see fit to release you. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly," Sandry spat, marching stiffly up the stairs. She stopped outside the door to her room and called down, "You can do whatever you want to me, but you can't control me- or my words. I can say whatever I want. *@^* ****** *@*@^^!" She jerked the door open and hurled herself inside. The sound of the door slam that followed reverberated through the now-still entry hall.

"Cat dirt," Vedris muttered, causing the guards to guffaw. Flushing bright red, the ruler of all Emelan glared at his guards, then strode quickly from the hall. 

****


	10. Language II

Disclaimer: I, Andrea Rimsky, author of this scene, do not claim these characters, locales, etc. In addition, I refuse all responsibility for your reaction to this scene and the others in this story. It is a satire, and for that reason the characters may appear in such a way that does not tally with the published books of Tamora Pierce. Tough.

(And please review)

Language II

Lady Sandrilene fa Toren heard the crunch of leaves under her shoes as she walked through the courtyard of the Duke's Citadel. It was almost a shame, she thought, to go inside in this lovely weather. On the other hand, her Great Uncle would worry if she were late. 

He was waiting for her in his study, where he always seemed to be reviewing an endless pile of petitions and reports. The grim, elderly duke smiled to see his niece and companion enter. 

"Sandrilene," he greeted her warmly, "I trust you have enjoyed yourself?"

"Of course," Sandry replied lightly. "How could I not enjoy myself with my foster-siblings?"

"And is Evumeimei becoming accustomed to her new home?" He always had taken a keen interest in her life and the lives of the girls and boy she had become closer than family too. Since her foster-brother Briar's return, with his student in tow, he had extended that concern to the little girl as well.

"She's quite comfortable at Discipline now," Sandry answered. "She's adjusted to the change a lot faster than anyone thought, Lark says," the girl added. "We think it's because she's used to living on her own. She's really very mature, for only a kid."

"Your pardon, Sandrilene?" The duke asked. "How did our conversation turn from young mages to livestock?" Sandry tried not to roll her eyes. She hated it when her uncle pretended not to understand her just because she used a slang term.

"You know what I mean, Uncle," she complained.

"You are correct, my dear," he admitted, "but-" he held up a forefinger- "I have the experience necessary to distinguish this particular vulgar colloquialism and it from proper language. Were you talking to another," he chided, "you would promote only confusion, or worse, give the impression that the word was acceptable in polite company." 

"It's not like I'm swearing," Sandry protested, "It's only a slang term."

" Only a slang term'?" The duke demanded, "My dear Sandrilene, you fail to make even the coarsest differentiation between a den of thieves and a well-bred home and then dismiss it as only a slang term'!" 

"Are you calling Winding Circle a "den of thieves"?" Sandry said, indignant, "one of the greatest centers of learning on the Pebbled Sea?"

"Mean phrases are no more acceptable at Winding Circle than here," he clarified, with a hint of shock in his tone. "I am somewhat distressed to learn that you there employ them. You will, nevertheless, refrain from them in all places."

"I will be happy too, Uncle, in formal situations," Sandry conceded, "I _do_ know what is appropriate, after all. But," she continued, "I'm not going to change my normal language where it doesn't matter."

"Am I to understand," the duke asked, apparently changing the subject, "that you regularly utilize neologisms in the vicinity of Winding Circle."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Sandry said: "Words like kid' are general usage for people my age."

"I trust, even so," he told her, "that you moderate your language around Evumeimei."

"Huh?" Asked Sandry.

"That is a most inappropriate and base sound, Sandrilene," her uncle snapped. "How many times is it necessary that I inform you on this point?"

"I apologize, Uncle," Sandry said wearily, "but I really didn't understand what you meant."

"Do you have an aversion to making polite inquiry?" He answered waspishly. Sandry decided to ignore that comment.

"If you please, Uncle," she said, the model of decorum, "would you kindly rephrase your question that I can properly answer it." The duke nodded approval at her language.

"It is of concern to me, Sandrilene, that you, by recklessly employing colloquial terms around Evumeimei, imprint upon that innocent child bad speech habits. Do you such a thing?"

Sandry hesitated.

"Do not lie to me, Sandrilene." 

"Yes," she answered wildly. "No. I don't know!" she finished, frustrated. "I don't weigh every word that leaves my mouth!"

"It would not be an unuseful skill, my dear," he remarked dryly. "I cannot, nonetheless, condone your carelessness which, with great certainty, will corrupt the language and innocence of Evumeimei."

"She grew up on the streets, Uncle," Sandry exclaimed exasperatedly. "My using slang around her isn't going to do a whole lot!"

"Your friend Briar hailed from such an unfortunate background as well," she was reminded coldly, "and he has risen from it admirably." If he expected Sandry to pick up his train of thought from the somewhat cryptic sentence, the duke was disappointed. 

"And so?" Sandry asked. "Why is that significant?"

"Would you ruin Evumeimei's chances to better herself by demonstrating neologism to her while she is still struggling to grasp the language? I do not think you are that heartless, Sandrilene."

"You just said that Briar turned out fine." 

"He was given no other model than that of correct usage." Sandry nodded; it was true.

"But Briar still uses some slang words, that we've all learned from him now," Sandry said slowly. "So," she concluded, "I don't think it matters how I talk."

"No!" The duke slammed his fist into his desk to emphasize the point. "No. It is of even more importance that you set a suitable pattern for the child to follow even as others around her do not. You are a noblewoman; she will instinctively take your lead."

"I don't think that's true, Uncle," Sandry tried to explain, but she was cut off. 

"Do not interrupt Sandrilene. You are becoming slovenly in your words, my dear," he chastised. "I have attempted to show you reason, to appeal to your intellect, but I see you do not respond. As such, you force me to resort to command. I forbid you to speak colloquially anywhere for the duration of three weeks. No," he said as she tried to protest, "do not argue with me. There are times and places where it is permissible to speak like an urchin of the Mire-"

"Using one slang word is not speaking like an urchin of the Mire'!" Sandry interjected.

"Be silent!" Was the command. "There are times and places where disreputable language is sanctionable," he repeated, "but neither this citadel nor Winding Circle is among them. You must train yourself to choose your words with precision." He looked into her eyes for a long moment, until his niece looked away. Taking this as submission, the duke dismissed her. "You may go."

The girl smiled. "Okay, Uncle."

"Sandrilene!" Sandry fled to her room, deciding to anticipate the command that was almost certain to come.


	11. Matchmaking I

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The Boyfriend III

"Sandrilene?"

"Yes, Uncle?" Sandry put down her embroidery, rose, and came to stand by the side of her guardian. He motioned her to a chair next to his own. Carefully, she arranged her skirts and sat.

"You are aware, my dear," the duke began, "that we are to receive an embassy from Namorn."

"From Namorn? Yes of course I know, Uncle." Actually, she had momentarily forgotten, but it at her uncle's mention, the information flooded back. The duke was mediating a week-long summit between Namorn and Irod. How could she have forgotten? But as her great-uncle's sometime chatelaine, it often seemed that she had to deal with a good deal more information than she could possibly process on a daily basis.

"Among the delegates whom we will host," Vedris continued, "Is one Count Eigir, the half-brother of the empress. He is of your years, Sandrilene, and gifted in magic. It would please me if you were to undertake to show to him the city."

Sandry scowled inwardly. She had been looking forward to spending more time at Winding Circle and on her own projects now that the heat of summer prevented too much business in Summersea. Her plans did not include shuttling a probably unwilling Namornese cousin around to all the sights of the city. She didn't even like her Namornese relatives. "Won't I be needed to translate?" She asked. The duke and his high-level advisors would be speaking directly to the more important diplomats from the two countries, but the minor delegates from both countries, as well as many of the lesser Emelanese nobles who would be assisting the process might not be familiar with the foreign languages. 

She knew it was an odd request: usually she did everything possible to stay away from translating boring bits of conversation from one language to another. But it was certainly better than being shackled to some distant cousin for a week. 

"I thought to spare you, my dear," There was a note of puzzlement in her uncle's voice. "I know you do not find enjoyment in it. There is," he said carefully, "the other matter of your Namornese. You have not kept it as well as you might have, Sandrilene." Sandry resisted the urge to glare at her uncle. This was only the third time he had mentioned it in the past week. It isn't that bad.' She thought to herself. I can still say and understand anything if I think about it.' And now she really seemed to be stuck.

"But won't Eigir be busy with the summit?" 

"He will not." The duke's tone might have indicated that there were to be no more questions on the subject.

"Then," Sandry said, "Why did he come? That's the whole reason they're here, isn't it? The summit?"

"When you ask three questions in quick succession, Sandrilene," Vedris answered irately, "Your listener cannot possibly be expected to form an answer that is coherent to you."

"If," Sandry rephrased, rolling her eyes, "Eigir is not to be a part of the summit, then why did he come?"

Duke Vedris shifted slightly, a sign that he was, perhaps, discomforted by the question. In any case, he made no answer.

"Well?" Sandry demanded. "If I'm going to tow him around with me for a week, I should at least know why!"

"I," he paused. "I would like for the two of you to become acquainted, my dear."

" 'Acquainted'?" Sandry repeated.

"It shows a severe lack of wit to parrot another's words in reply to him, Sandrilene," the duke snapped.

"He's come all the way from Namorn so we can get acquainted'?" 

"I do not comprehend the reason for your reluctance to accept this point, Sandrilene," her uncle chided sharply. "It is not a difficult concept in the least."

"And why do you want us to become acquainted'?"

"Will you kindly stop putting an undue emphasis on the word acquainted'!" He yelled, practically losing it. "I do not understand this obstinacy, Sandrilene," he continued, more calmly. "Why do you insist upon a reason for everything?"

But Sandry was ignoring him. "I understand," she said. "You're trying to set us up. You're trying to marry me off!" She practically shrieked the last sentence as she sprang from her chair.

"That is an entirely unfounded denunciation," she was answered firmly. "No such thing is intended."

"Maybe not trying to marry me off," Sandry admitted, "but you do want something to develop between me and thiscousin."

There was a long moment of silence. The duke's eyes moved back and forth; clearly, he was debating what to say next. "Your statement is not without accuracy," he finally allowed.

"I thought you didn't want me to have anything to do with boys," she charged.

"Northern blood is less hot," Duke Vedris explained stiffly. "I do not worry about your virtue with respects to his person."

"Andril was Namornese, too," she pointed out.

"Do not mention the name of That Young Man in my presence!" The duke ordered.

"But he _was_ Namornese," she protested. "What's the difference?"

"Prying natures such as yours, Sandrilene, are quite distasteful to me," he observed. "When I was your age, my lord father had only to say to me: "I would that you did a thing," and I submitted myself to his will. Such obedience would be welcome in you, my dear."

"Times have changed, Uncle," Sandry said, exasperated. "And in more ways than that. You are not going to arrange a marriage for me."

"I am not doing so. Though if I were," he acknowledged, "I would expect compliance on your part. However, I only ask that you behave with courtesy and kindness to Eigir, and consider fully the possibility of nuptials with him."

"Absolutely not." Sandry was firm. "You can't possibly expect me to be able to even look at Eigir now that I know what you're intending!"

"You will do as you are bid!" Vedris's eyes lit with a dangerous fire.

"No! I'll elope with Andril first!" She proclaimed wildly, then ducked to avoid the paperweight that was hurled in her direction.

"How dare you speak his name when I have forbidden it only moments earlier?" The duke shouted at his niece, little flecks of saliva beginning to appear at the edges of his mouth. He was breathing heavily.

"See how I dare!" She screamed back. "Andril! Andril! Andril!" She danced around him, chanting the name.

"Sandrilene!" He roared. The duke stood up and strode to face his ward. He grabbed her forearms. She tried to twist out of his grip, but stopped fighting him as he began to speak. Then "Sandrilene." He said in a much calmer voice, but still in one in which anger and disappointment resided. "You have behaved in a way I did not think possible for one of your years. Instead of deporting yourself as an adult and a mage, you have acted as a rebellious child. Are you that child, Sandrilene?"

"No," she answered ashamed.

"You are cognizant of the standard to which your birth and breeding hold you, my dear," he pronounced upon her. "I trust that you will not disappoint it."

"I won't, Uncle," she promised.


	12. The Anklet

DISCLAIMER: I do not claim these characters or these locations. They are copyrighted by Tamora Pierce and Scholastic Books. 

DISCLAIMER II: If you are a die-hard fan, you may find these portrayals slightly (or more that slightly) skewed. You've been warned.

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The Anklet

Lady Sandrilene fa Toren skipped into the Breakfast Room, the tiny bells on her new anklet ringing merrily.

"Good morning" her uncle, the duke of Emelan, began, but stopped with a frown. "What is that chiming?" He inquired. "I do not observe any jewelry on your person, my dear."

Sandry smiled and lifted her skirts a few inches to display her foot and ankle. The duke averted his eyes. "Sandrilene." He gasped, scandalized, "do not expose yourself in public!"

Sandry rolled her eyes. "Look at my ankle, Uncle," she requested.

"It is indecent," the duke said firmly, still looking away from her. "Drop your skirts immediately."

His niece sighed. She knelt down and unfastened the anklet. "Here," she offered, holding it out to him, "this is what was making the sound."

The duke examined the object carefully. "This has the appearance of a bracelet," he announced at last, "yet you were not so adorned when you entered, Sandrilene."

"It's not a bracelet," Sandry explained. "It's an anklet."

"A what?" There was a tone in Duke Vedris's voice that implied he knew he would not like the explanation that he was about to hear.

"An anklet," Sandry repeated. "You wear them around your ankle, like a bracelet around your wrist."

"On the contrary, my dear," the duke corrected icily, "it is you who indulge in this lewd fashion."

"It's not lewd," she protested indignantly.

"Do not argue with me, Sandrilene."

"But you're being unreasonable, Uncle," she complained.

"Is it unreasonable to ask that my niece maintain a modicum of decency?" He demanded.

"Lots of perfectly respectable people wear anklets," Sandry said.

"Indeed?" The sarcasm in the duke's voice was almost unbearable. "Who might these perfectly respectable people' be?"

"Yazmin Hebet, for one," she answered pertly.

The duke opened his mouth as if about to speak, then closed it. A moment passed. "Mistress Hebet," he began again, "while a good and honest woman, is a _dancer_, Sandrilene."

"So?"

"Her estate is not one entirely reputable" Duke Vedris informed her sharply.

"Lark," Sandry tried. "I'm sure that she wore them when she was a tumbler. You can't say that that she, a dedicate, isn't respectable."

"Ah," the duke said, raising a finger, "you say that Lark _wore_ an anklet. You utilize the past tense, indicating that such is no longer the case. Tell me, Sandrilene," he catechized, "does Lark adorn herself still in such a manner?" Sandry was silent. Vedris continued. "I understand your silence to indicate a negative. Sandrilene, you are neither dancer nor acrobat. It is most unseemly that you adorn yourself after their fashion."

"Why?" Sandry asked. "They're performers, who make an honest living. It's not as if they're prostitutes."

The duke winced. "A girl your age should not know of such things," he muttered under his breath. His niece rolled her eyes. "Do not treat my concern for you with contempt, Sandrilene," she was warned.

"Yes, Uncle." The duke chose to ignore the slight sarcasm in her voice. "They aren't a burden on anyone," Sandry continued. "They earn their own way just the way anyone would. What do you have against them?"

"I bear them no enmity," the duke explained, "but I do not think it meet that a young noblewoman should emulate their dress and manner."

"Why not?"

"I will not brook disobedience in this, Sandrilene." The duke admonished. His face was beginning to redden.

"Why not?" Sandry repeated.

"Because I will not have my niece running about with the appearance of a dancing girl from Karang!" The duke roared, pounding the arm of his chair with his fist.

"But that's the whole point of it, Uncle!" Sandry yelled back.

"The WHAT?"

"You don't understand, Uncle," Sandry explained, "it's the point of the fashion. We're showing that we're independent and free with ourselves, like dancers." As soon as she said the last, she immediately regretted it. "I didn't mean-" she began.

"Free with yourselves?" His deep voice boomed with anger. "Have you been compromising your virtue, Sandrilene?"

"No, that's not what I meant," Sandry protested.

"What _did_ you mean?" The duke was calmer, but the dangerous note in his voice seemed to indicate that this was not necessarily a good thing.

"I meant that when I, and everyone else, dresses the way we do now, that we are showing that we don't need to hide behind old-fashioned gowns and styles in order to be who we are." Sandry said carefully.

"And thatthing?" He gestured at the anklet.

"It's just, it's just" Sandry was a loss for words. "It's just another piece of jewelry," she informed him. "It doesn't mean anything."

"It means nothing but that you are associating yourself with a class of women with which you ought to keep a distance." The duke corrected.

"I still don't see why you care so much about me not being around them," Sandry complained.

"I do not forbid you from consorting with them," he clarified. "Indeed, it is wise that one be acquainted with all manners of people. But you must retain your rank and must not make yourself alike to one of them. Do you understand?"

"I understand your point," Sandry said slowly. "I understand what you're saying."

"I see that you prevaricate, Sandrilene." The duke chastised. "It is a practice which I detest. Answer me undeceivingly: do you understand and obey me?"  
"No."

"No?" The duke stared at her in disbelief. "Can I make my will clearer to you?"

"Your will is very clear," Sandry replied, "but I'm still wearing my anklet." She bent down and refastened it, as if to make her stand more definite.

"You will follow your licentious fashion in rank insubordination to my express directive?" He asked.

"It's not licentious," was her only response

"Most certainly it is," the duke told his niece. "You flaunt parts of your body that should remain hidden." Sandry raised her eyebrows expressively. "Now heed me, Sandrilene," he commanded. "You will no longer indulge in this harlotry. Give me thatthing."

"What thing?" Sandry asked innocently.

The duke turned his awful frown onto his niece.

"Oh all right," Sandry acquiesced, trying to appear nonchalant. She unfastened her anklet again and handed it over.

Vedris dropped ornament on the ground stepped on it. Then he turned, and strode out of the room.

Sandry picked up her anklet. The heel of the duke's boot at flattened the bells into little disks. The chain was a little bent as well, but it was otherwise undamaged. She re-tied it around her ankle, only blinking back a few tears. She walked back to her room, followed by the sound of not ringing bells, but the clinking of coins. 

****


	13. Matchmaking II

Yes, I am exploiting, distorting, mutilating, and altering the characters and settings of Tamora Pierce. Get over it. 

Match Making II

"What I don't understand," Lady Sandrilene fa Toren said exasperatedly, for what felt like the thousandth time, "is why I have to be there if all he's going to do is read in the Temple library." The "he" she referred to was her distant cousin Eigir, who was visiting from Namorn. Sandry had been roped into escorting the young man around the city. Although only a few years younger than he, and a fellow mage, she had decided after three days of his company that they two had nothing in common. Actually, she had barely spoken to him at all. Eigir's grasp of Common was very poor, but he flatly refused to speak in his native Namornese, claiming that he wanted to practice the language used in the countries around the Pebbled Sea. 

"And even when I try to initiate some sort of conversation," she continued, "he manages to turn it back to his research." Back to Theoretical Magic. It was a subject that Sandry found mildly interesting, but not when it was being explained in great depth by someone who could barely articulate his ideas in the language he was speaking. She had lost all comprehension and interest in the possibilities for magic that was impossible in the first place very quickly.

"I do not think that you are aware, how petulant your diatribe sounds, Sandrilene," Duke Vedris commented. He had listened patiently to his great-niece's explanation, but he, with his typically stringent expectations, was in no mood to let her have her way in avoiding responsibility. "You whine like a child whose mother refuses to buy it a toy it desires."

Sandry bit back the refutation that rose in her mouth. Getting her Uncle angry would not be the way to get free of Eigir.

"I told you before you began your plea that I would not entertain the subject of Count Eigir any further," the duke continued. "I have not changed my mind."

"But Uncle!" Sandry exclaimed. "He doesn't talk to me. I don't talk to him. He just reads in the library. Why do I have to be there?"

"You have a responsibility to the count as his hostess. Do not try to shirk it," Vedris answered sternly.

"_I_ didn't invite him!"

"Sandrilene!" 

Sandry blushed. Her comment had been a little outrageous. "But I didn't," she muttered, although she knew she sounded exactly as her great-uncle accused.

It was at that moment that Count Eigir himself walked hesitantly in. "You call about me, Your Grace, my lady?" He asked, bowing politely to the duke and to Sandry.

"Sandrilene and I were simply discussing your visit, my lord," the duke replied, recovering quickly from the surprise, "we are very glad to have you as our guest." Sandry raised her eyebrows. Luckily for her, Eigir was looking away.

"I am also glad of visiting Your Grace," the younger man returned, bobbing his head for emphasis. As he exchanged a few more pleasantries with his host, Sandry studied her cousin. He wasn't bad looking, unless you considered being tall, skinny, and so awkward that you gave the impression you were going to trip over you own limbs at any moment off-putting. Most of that, however, was probably due to his age; Eigir was only a few years older than was. He wore thick spectacles, which he was nervously polishing on the hem of his tunic as he asked the duke for permission to conduct a small experiment on the Citadel grounds. 

"It will have no damage," he explained earnestly. "Very little experiment." As the count tried to explain exactly what it was his experiment would do, Sandry noticed the first signs of impatience spread across her uncle's face. Ha! She thought to herself. Maybe now he would see how impossible Eigir was. Maybe he'd even explode with frustration and order him out. But no, the duke simply nodded.

"It is well," he said, in a tone slightly louder than his usual, "I will not hinder your explorations."

Eigir stopped suddenly in the midst of an incoherent explanation. "With me your permission, Your Grace?" He asked.

"Have you set the proper wards?"

"I have."

"Then," said the duke, "Permission granted." Eigir bowed deeply and scuttled out.

"See!" Sandry said when she judged her cousin was sufficiently out of earshot. "See what I have to put up with!"

"I see that the count is a polite and responsible young man," the duke corrected, "which is more than I may say of you, Sandrilene."

"But didn't you hear him?" She asked. "Didn't you hear him go on and on and on in his broken Common about his stupid experiment? He never shuts up about it. Never!" There was a very long silence that grew more uncomfortable as it was prolonged. 

At last the duke spoke. His was voice was quiet and disappointed. "I am shocked at your behavior," he said simply. "I would never have thought that any child of mine could display such rude and self-seeking sentiments."

"I'm not your child," Sandry mumbled, then wished she could take it back. 

"That sort of flippant remark is exactly what I am referring to," he noted somewhat more sharply. "You have no respect for anyone or anything. Like a tree that grows crooked for lack of good soil, your soul is twisted because you have no ethical base from which to live.

"I confess myself to be at a loss," the duke continued. "I have tried, in the years you have lived in my household, to, by instruction and example, instill in you a proper moral code. Have I failed?" He held his niece's gaze until she looked away. "Have I failed?" He repeated.

"That-that's not true!" Sandry spluttered. "It's not! It's not. I'm not like that." Her voice got weaker as she repeated herself. As usual, her uncle had made her feel small and guilty inside. 

"You do not care for the feelings of anyone but yourself, Sandrilene." The duke's voice went on inexorably, as if she had not spoken. "You refuse kindness to the count and are sullen in his presence. For what? Even should you find him distasteful to you, you ought to treat him with courtesy. You disdain his understanding of our language, but have you made a single effort to help him improve that understanding? I do not think that you have. You have demonstrated yourself today to be a base and selfish girl." The duke paused to look at her again. "Have you an answer for me, Sandrilene?"

"An answer to what?" Sandry asked. "To your accusations? No. I have no answer." She rose to leave.

"Do not go," was the command, administered in that quiet, velvety voice. "We have not finished our discussion, my dear."

Sandry rolled her eyes, but she did turn around to face her uncle again. "Maybe I have been unkind to Eigir, Uncle," she admitted. "I will try to be nicer to him. I certainly can't expect you to relieve me of his company now, at any rate, so I don't see what there's left to discuss," she finished coldly.

"On the contrary, my dear, we have a great deal left to discuss," Duke Vedris corrected. "Did you listen to a single word of what I have just told you?"

"I tried not to," Sandry said honestly.

"You tried not to." The duke repeated. "Ye Gods!" he appealed to the heavens. "What is to be done with this child?" 

The child' raised her eyebrows sarcastically. "_Honestly_, Uncle," she muttered.

Once again, Vedris ignored her. "Verily she is a hardened criminal!" He exclaimed, still mostly to himself, "that she defies all efforts to correct her character!"

"Umm, Uncle?" Sandry asked, interrupting his soliloquy.

"If you need time to think of the proper words in which to frame your thoughts, Sandrilene," the duke said sharply to her, "delay your speech, but do not prolong such pointless and vulgar sounds."

"If all you're going to do is criticize the way I talk," she complained, "there really isn't any point in me staying."

"I mention these things in passing in the vain hope that my repetition of them will cause you to change your bad habits," he retorted.

Sandry wanted to scream in frustration. "Criticize criticize criticize," she yelled. "That's all you do! You never even ask me if I have an opinion, or if I have feelings about something, or if I'm upset! You never have anything nice to say! I'm sick and tired of it!" She screamed at the duke, just as he yelled 

"I will not tolerate such disrespect, Sandrilene!" and as Eigir poked his head around the door again.

"Ah, Your Grace?" He asked timidly. "My experiment...it went" he paused, searching for the word. "Up," he said after a moment. "It went up." With his hands he demonstrated something exploding. Sandry noticed that his eyebrows were now singed. "But the wards stand," the count hastened to reassure them. "There is only burned place so big." He gestured to include the entire study.

"Indeed," said Duke Vedris, still somewhat frosty. Sandry was glad to see his displeasure turned on someone else for a change, even if that someone seemed as oblivious as her cousin did. "I presume, my lord, that you will be able to repair this burned place'?" That set Eigir off on another broken explanation. As he got more excited, Sandry noticed that he used less and less common, actually making him more intelligible. Seeing her uncle thus occupied, she made a quick escape

If you liked it; if you hated it; please tell me. 


	14. Family Reunion

This is a parody of the works of Tamora Pierce. All characters, places, etc. belong to her. In this story they are used spuriously and with a good deal of disrespect. Live with it. Oh yes; the exerpts from Frantsen's letter are lifted directly from a letter written to Tsar Peter the Great by _his_ son.

Family Reunion

Sandrilene fa Toren watched from beneath her eyelids as her uncle paced his study. He walked to the door, then back across the room to stare out at Summersea through the diamond panes of the window. After a few moments, he strode to the bookshelf and took down a volume. Quickly he perused its leaves for a certain passage. The book was back on its shelf in a minute or so, as the duke moved to his desk, where he bent briefly to make a note of something or other.

Sandry wished he would sit down. All of the movement made needlework entirely too distraction. She wasn't sure what the usually composed duke was so agitated over. It was only his eldest son who would be arriving tonight with his wife. Or rather, who should have arrived the night before. Putting her embroidery away with a sigh, Sandry tried to think of a possible reason for her uncle's discomfort over this visit. True, Frantsen had never had the best of relationships with his ducal father, and Vedris made no pretense of approving his son's marriage or lifestyle. And then there had been the scandalous letter Frantsen had written just after the duke's heart attack:

"_I consider myself unqualified and unfit for this tasktherefore I do not make a claim, nor will I make a claim in the future, to thethrone." _And, horror of horrorshe had written it to the Lord Seneschal, apparently assuming his father was too far gone to be addressed directly! 

There was a knock at the door. "Your Grace?"

Duke Vedris quickly sat down. "Enter." It was a messenger. From the quickly suppressed look on her Uncle's face, Sandry guess he might have sworn, had she not been in the room.

"Pardon, Your Grace," the boy stammered, "My Lady Provost sends this." He held out a dispatch, then hesitantly walked to place it in the duke's hands. The duke handed him a coin, coupled with a gesture of dismissal, before settling to read the report. Sandry noted with some relief that it was of considerable length. Pray gods it would occupy her uncle until his son arrived.

There came another knock. The duke didn't look up. "Uncle?" Sandry queried after a few minutes. "Someone 's knocked"

"I am well aware of it, Sandrilene." The duke returned to his dispatch. "You may come in," he said to the direction of the door.

The door opened. The two who entered were nearly middle aged and looked to be lower-middle class. Sandry wondered for a split second how such people had managed to just walk in apparently without permission. Until

"ErmHello, Father," the man said to her uncle. 

The duke very slowly set his reading down. "Punctuality has never been a virtue of yours, Frantsen," he remarked. "But I had hoped that you would take a wife who might encourage its development in you.

The younger man's face showed that he was trying to ignore the comment as he led his companion forward. "This is my wife Hanna, sir," he said, presenting the woman. She curtsied respectfully, but Sandry didn't miss the sharp look she gave her husband. Clearly, he would have hell to pay later for bringing her to meet her father-in-law.

The duke had risen politely to greet his son's wife; now he lifted her hand to his lips and raised her up, motioning for her to be seated in his own chair. He himself took the one beside her. Sandry felt herself let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding in. At least her uncle seemed prepared to be civil tonight, whatever he thought of Frantsen and Hanna. She had just decided that all was going quite well when she realized that no one was speaking.

"I hope your journey wasn't too difficult?" She asked to break the silence, speaking, mostly to her cousin.

"No, not too difficult," Frantsen answered before realizing that he didn't have any idea who the girl who had just addressed him was. He looked at Sandry, puzzled.

"I'm Sandry---Sandrilene," she said quickly, "Mattin's daughter." She hoped that her father's name would clear things up. He had been Frantsen's first cousin.

"Of course," the man said. "Father wrote to me about you, but I expected someone," he paused, "someone older. All the things I've heard about you, and you're only a girl," he added, mostly to himself. Sandry stiffened, and forced herself to think of a polite reply. 

"Sandrilene is infinitely more responsible and intelligent than you have ever shown yourself to be, Frantsen," the duke interjected before she could come up with any. "_And _she is obedient enough to marry where she is directed."

"Uncle!" Sandry exclaimed, as her cousin simultaneously said

"Father! How can you?!"

"Do you presume to tell me what I can and cannot say, Frantsen?" The duke asked, turning a terrible gaze upon his eldest son.

The son deflated visibly. "No, sir," he mumbled.

"Well I'll presume it," said his wife suddenly. "You're certainly older and wiser and better than we are, Your Grace, and you can speak your mind more because of it, but some things just oughtn't to be spoke, and that's that." Hanna had a broad accent. She skipped syllables, and slurred words together in a way that made the duke wince. A country accent was not necessarily a lower class one, Sandry reminded herself. Many of the minor nobility were little greater than the peasants who lived about their manors. Their children would not have the more educated inflections of the court. And there was nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with being a peasant, even, if indeed that was Hanna's parentage. But still, she could understand her uncle's unease. Frantsen, for his part, was looking at the floor, obviously the most uncomfortable of anyone. Hanna looked boldly at her father-in-law, daring him to comment. A dare, which, of course, he took.

"It is most pleasant to hear such an innocent view of the world, mistress," he said carefully. "But I believe that you will understand my concern for my son's welfare better when your own children are of a marriageable age."

"Begging Your Grace's pardon," retorted Hanna, "we weren't talking of Frantsen's welfare. We were discussing what you don't have the right to say." Sandry tried to keep from smiling at the scene: a sturdy, uncouth peasant (for so Hanna appeared, whatever her true background) confronting so boldly the stern, forbidding duke.

"I have always thought it best," the duke explained in a gently condescending tone, "to look after my children's moral wellbeing even as I care for their physical. To this end, I believe in chastising them where I see them stray from the path of virtue." 

"Oho!" Exclaimed the woman. "So you think he "strayed from the virtuous path" by marrying me, do you! Your Grace," she added. 

"It was not in the deed of marrying you, mistress, but in that the marriage was against my express orders, that he so strayed," Vedris elaborated, not missing a beat, but with a somewhat strained voice that betrayed him. "That _disobedience_ was the sin." Hanna looked at him with narrowed eyes. _Probably she can't comprehend what he's saying_, Sandry thought snidely, and then felt a little guilty for it. To make up for it, she intervened.

"I'm sure Frantsen has much to say to his father," she said brightly to Hanna, "and I know we'll just be in the way. Why don't I show you your rooms?" Without waiting for an answer, she pulled the older woman to her feet and led her to the door.

"I know your game, Lady Sandrilene," her cousin-in-law informed her as soon as they were in the hallway. "You'll nobly save a poor country-woman from disgracing herself, won't you? But I'd have you know that I could've out-argued him if you'd just let me!" Sandry smiled thinly. 

"I don't know anyone who _has_ "out-argued" His Grace," she answered, "most don't even dare try. But it's good to know I'm not the only one who will stand up to him."

Hanna looked at her, surprised. "Well I never," she said. "Perhaps Frantsen's family isn't all bad after all."

****


	15. The Journal

This Episode Courtesy of Edreya Natalia

The Journal  
  
Lady Sandrilene fa Toren pranced lightly down a hallway inside her great-uncle's ducal citadel. She had just returned from a lesson with her young protege, Pascal, and was elated that she had managed to successfully explain a challenging concept to him that day. Eager to record the experience in her journal, Sandry dashed the last few steps to her chamber, darted into the room, and knelt beside her canopied bed in order to retrieve the slim volume tucked beneath the mattress. However, instead of finding the book readily, her fingers only brushed against her linen bedsheets. Frowning, Sandry reached further back. Perhaps she had shoved the diary into its hiding place harder than she meant to the day before.  
  
"Looking for this, my dear?" a dry voice questioned from behind her. Startled, Sandry jumped to her feet and wheeled around sharply, only to discover that her august relative and guardian, Duke Vedris IV of Emelan, was seated in a chair before her window, watching her with an amused expression. Sandry's surprise turned to confusion as she realized that Vedris was holding a small, leather-bound book aloft: her journal.  
  
"Uncle, what are you doing with that?" Sandry queried, willing herself to remain calm. She wondered how the duke had come by her little book, as she was certain that she had removed it from his study after making her last entry the night before.  
  
"When I noticed you writing so diligently last night, "Vedris replied gravely, "I felt it my duty to find and examine your work, and it was fortunate that I did so, for reading it has been quite an edifying experience."  
  
His niece stared at him, struck dumb by horrified outrage. She hastily reviewed all of the unflattering comments she had ever penned about Emelan's ruler. Though apprehensive about his reaction, at that moment, she was certain that he deserved all of them. She silently cursed herself for not having found a better hiding place, but then again, she thought, she would never have suspected her uncle, of all people, to demean himself by searching through the belongings of a teenage girl. Vedris smiled wryly, as if he could guess the direction of her frantic train of thought.  
  
"Come, my dear. Sit down. We have a few things to discuss." Though his voice was calm, his steely eyes as he indicated the chair across from him dared Sandry to defy him. She seated herself silently, but soon found her voice.  
  
"Give me my journal back right now! You had no right to read it. It's private!" she yelled. Her uncle raised an eyebrow.  
  
"No right? I am your guardian, Sandrilene. It is therefore my prerogative to safeguard your wellbeing as best I may, though you certainly attempt to circumvent my efforts at every opportunity." The duke paused for breath, then flipped open the diary. "Your grammar and spelling are quite atrocious, Sandrilene. You should say 'Andril and I,' rather than 'Andril and me.' And what is this reference to the practice of 'making out?' This is the most nonsensical drivel I have ever read."  
  
"Then why bother reading it?" screamed Sandry. "It's private! I don't care if you're my uncle, you still shouldn't snoop in my diary or my bedroom! I have a right to some privacy!"  
  
"Kindly do not digress, young lady. I do not appreciate being shouted at as if I were a common ruffian," Vedris said dangerously.  
  
"I don't care who you are, Uncle! You should still respect my privacy! None of the guardians of the other kids I know read their journals," Sandry bellowed, leaning in closer to look the man in the eye.  
  
"Sandrilene! Watch your language!" the shocked duke exclaimed. "And I have already asked you to stop digressing. Goat offspring have no bearing on this discussion. However, that is of little importance. I demand that you pay me the respect I deserve as your uncle, your guardian, and your ruler."Sandry locked eyes with Vedris and had opened her mouth to respond indignantly, when Vedris spoke again, in a softly ominous tone. "Don't try my patience, my girl, or your situation will only worsen."  
  
"My situation!" Sandry cried incredulously. "You're the one who's invading my privacy! It's you who should be worried, not me!" Her guardian close his eyes briefly, but gave no other sign of having heard her latest outburst. In a brisk, businesslike tone, he continued,  
  
"Now then, where were we? Ah, yes. Your grammar. You must be more meticulous in your proofreading, Sandrilene."  
  
"Proofreading? This is a private journal, just for me," Sandry hissed, tossing a pointed glare at her uncle."  
  
On the contrary, my dear, "Vedris reprimanded her, "this diary of yours will one day be considered an important historical document. For this reason, you must be zealous in your efforts to present yourself, your writing skills, and both your relations and your acquaintances in the best possible light."  
  
"Huh?" Sandry said, confused. This attack came from an entirely unexpected angle.  
  
"Cease making that vulgar noise at once!" ordered the duke. "To continue, in the interest of historical fairness and accuracy, I request, and not unreasonably, that you carefully check your diary entries for spelling and grammar errors, that you avoid using unintelligible colloquialisms, such as 'making out,' which is certainly not an expression I have ever heard used in polite society, and that you improve your penmanship. I also-"  
  
"But, Uncle," Sandry broke in angrily, "I don't care about historical significance! And I-"  
  
"Quiet!" snapped her guardian. "I demand that you do me the courtesy of allowing me to finish speaking without interruption. Is that clear?"  
  
"You're the one interrupting me now," the girl pointed out in a disgruntled voice.  
  
"That is quite enough, young lady!" roared Vedris. "As I was saying, in the interest of historical accuracy, I also require you to cease referring to me as- what was it?" He paused to flip through the pages covered in Sandry's scrawl. "Ah, yes. 'An unreasonable tyrant,' 'an oppressive dictator,' 'a mananical, horrible man,'-though I think you meant 'maniacal', there, Sandrilene- 'an evil fascist,' 'a hopelessly out-of-date prude,' and 'an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud.'"  
  
Sandry couldn't believe her ears. "You're telling me what to write in my diary just so that you don't go down in history as a jerk? That's the most presumptuous thing I ever heard!  
Especially from you, who's always telling me I should have integrity."  
  
"Persons of integrity do not slander their elders, especially not in potentially historical documents, Sandrilene," her uncle stated. "And watch your grammar and colloquialisms. You should not use the word 'jerk' in such a context. You should also say, 'That is presumptuous from you, as you are always telling me that I should have integrity,' instead of wording the sentence in the convoluted manner that you just employed." Sandry rolled her eyes.  
  
"Persons of integrity' don't snoop through other people's stuff, or try to defend themselves when they're caught red-handed!" she replied emphatically, ignoring the correction.  
  
"Persons of integrity shun the use of colloquial expressions. Persons of integrity also recognize the merit of the fulfillment of obligations and applaud such action, despite the personal cost,"Vedris corrected.  
  
"Then why can't I write what I want in my own journal?" his niece challenged. "You're such a hypocrite, Uncle!"  
  
"I will not tolerate your impudence any longer!" the duke shouted wildly. He paused to collect himself, then proceeded more calmly, saying, "This discussion is closed. You will moderate your language in the future, and you will also revise these objectionable diary entries. This is a ducal order, Sandrilene. You will comply without further recalcitrance."  
  
"Coward," Sandry muttered under her breath. "You're just pulling rank because you're too scared to argue with me."  
  
"I beg your pardon, my dear?" The words were delivered in an icy tone."Nothing, Uncle." She flashed him a false, sarcastically simpering smile.  
  
"Good." Vedris smiled back, satisfied. He leaned back in his chair, leafed once again through Sandry's writing, and then added, almost leisurely "now, there is the little matter of your defying me and continuing to smear your face with the cosmetics of a common harlot, as you clearly mentioned here on page 35 of this manuscript. What have you to say for yourself, young lady?"  
  
In lieu of replying, Sandry leapt to her feet and snatched the journal from its position on her uncle's knee. Crushing the precious book to her chest, she fled from the room, the sound of her quick footsteps resounding through the now otherwise silent wing of the stronghold.Vedris remained in his chair by the window for a few moments, contemplating door his niece had left ajar behind her. Then suddenly he smiled, stood and walked to his niece's desk. After re-seating himself, he took a clean sheet of paper and a pen from the top desk drawer and wrote a quick note to his niece in a flawless script.  
  
_My dear Sandrilene,  
  
His Grace, Duke Vedris IV of Emelan, requires you to submit the preliminary revised draft of the first half of your journal for his review and approval no later than next Watersday. The second half shall be presented the following Watersday. As I am certain I need not remind you, this is a ducal order, Sandrilene, and, as such, demands your perfect compliance. In addition, you are to be confined to your chambers for the next month, in a vain attempt to teach you the values of obedience, proper grooming, and good taste. This should also allow you ample time for both reflection on your failings and thorough, painstaking revision of your diary entries.  
_  
Signed_  
  
Your loving uncle_  
  
Duke Vedris re-read his message, smiled, and sealed the communication with hot wax, imprinting the head of his heavy ring into the waxen seal. He placed the missive on his niece's pillow, then exited the room, still smiling complacently to himself. 


End file.
